


A Valuable Lowblood

by Ulawan5



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, I tried my best to stick to canon but it's all speculation, It's the grueling journey of the Psiioniic through life, There's a big theme of having no control so there's that, a little talk of violence but it's an Ancestor history bit, kindof depressing too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulawan5/pseuds/Ulawan5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The life of the Psiioniic after the Signless's death. Spans from then to his installation in the Flagship Condescension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Valuable Lowblood

It was a quick reaction, what they did.

After Kankri was gone, it wasn't long before Her Imperious Condescension took notice. A guard informed her near on the spot that you had been an escaped slave. And knowing the trolls of your caste, it was not difficult to determine your power.

You saw Porrim torn from Kankri's remains shortly after Meulin fled in terror. You don't dare to think what could have happened to either of them, but you hope that the horrors that befell them did not surpass those you were subjected to soon after.

 

* * *

 

The transfer process was brutal, highbloods scoffed at you at every turn. Your dignity had been stripped from you the same way that your friends- no, companions- had been. Cold, messy, deliberate. Their words, at first, stung straight through to your pusher, but with time you became once more accustomed to them.

The testing process was grueling. Test after test, scans, the thoughts that they pumped through your head, the commands they made you take to exert powers. It was all so meticulously executed, the new goggles, the wires directly to and from your thinkpan. Your thoughts were no longer your own. They hadn't been for perigees.

At least, you think its been that long.

You haven't seen moonlight, or even sunlight in so long, and the electricity coursing through your thinkpan has scrambled the poor internal clock you had already had.

You think you see blood similar to yours on the equipment around you, or it could just be your own. You think you see other trolls pass through in your piss poor vision only made worse by depriving you of thought and perception. At the very least, you know that they don't stay long. You can barely sense the ebb and flow of electricity through the circuits of the room, and you can tell that it fluctuates by a constant measure. It's one of the few things you can decipher between tests, though at this point you're unsure if they're tests of skill, or endurance, you're pretty sure your guards and examiners are just sadists of a royally endorsed degree.

 

* * *

 

You're somewhat disconnected, at least, you're no longer strapped to a chair and fed signals. The din from whatever-time-interval past has quieted, and you are once more left with the din of voices that you have lived with all your life. Albeit a tad static-filtered, like hearing loss after an explosion.

 

You are fairly sure that you have been escorted to the throne room. No small feat, as you can barely stand, but electrical spears ensure that you keep your posture in front of Her Highness. You cannot decipher what is said, but it's not like you can't tell that they are appraising you like half a slaughtered bleat-beast. You've heard it before, like when they took your lusus away, they bartered over your head.

You figure that a highblood does not think any different of a mustardblood like yourself than an adult thinks of a child's comprehension. But you know, that they know what you are capable of. You think.

 

The echoing sound of the staff of Her Condescension off the palace walls startles your mind back to attention.

 

You're being approved. The most valuable lowblood on Alternia.

 

You have been chosen to pilot Her Majesty's personal starcraft.

 

* * *

  
  
  


You are given a brief “tour” of the Flagship Condescension.

In other words, they shove and prod you through a few corridors before letting you collapse in a cell.

Really, it's almost merciful that they have to prepare the socket.

However, it is far from relaxing in the slightest. Fuchsia walls wreak havoc on your already torn mind, and your eyes have lenses over them to keep them open and make sure that you haven't died. A measure taken the first day of your testing, and the direct cause of your eyesight's severe decline. Yellow tears do not aid sight when psionics cause your eyes to flash blue and red. As such, your retinas have blurred from disuse on accounts of obscurity.

It still doesn't save you from the gaudy color, however. That remains painful to your thinksponge no matter what you do. Your arms do little to block the light in the cell that seems to emanate from everywhere around you. In fact, it lets you pause to observe how emaciated you've become. Your body has withered away to fuel the mind that has been so demanded of.

At the same time, you have time to consider the fate of your friends. Kankri is dead, irrevocably so. You watched him be flogged, skewered by that arrow, scream his last expletive, then be burned where he had been affixed. And you felt the clawing arm of Porrim in her suffering before she could make it to the flogging jut, wailing over her child. As well as Meulin's distress over her quadrantmate expressed similarly. You may even admit to yourself that you were tearfully shouting over the crowd at your Moirail as he hung dying. You did not get the chance to ever see those irons cooled beyond any troll's blood tone.

You think to yourself, this may be your last time to have your thoughts to yourself, though there is not even assurance of that at this point. You allow yourself to physically show your emotion the rest of the day. Cameras be damned. You can think for once, and you have a right to weep.

 

It makes it almost comforting to be alone for once.

 

* * *

  
  


It's been sweeps, you think. And the last coherent memory you have is of Her Imperious Condescension's toothy seadweller smile. Things have gone on around you since then, but any outside stimulus is drowned by the electrical demands of the ship, and your thinksponge's nubcap-jerk reaction to supply. Her Majesty flits about, and goes out of her way to make you aware that she is there. You're not sure what she does, but you like to think that you're lucky to be unable to perceive physical touch. She is keeping you from aging, and you're sure of that. Though centuries of sweeps blend so well that time has become less of a measure for you and more of a cesspool of putrefying stolen thought.

To think that this cycle will continue indefinitely.

It probably is, as they say, a fate worse than death.


End file.
